


In the Region of Sight

by thatworldinverted



Series: Desert of the Real [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), The Matrix (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Blow Jobs, Crossover, Dystopia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 13:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatworldinverted/pseuds/thatworldinverted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> <i>You have shown me a strange sight, and they are strange prisoners.</i><br/></p>
</div><br/>In which John has his world turned upside down, right side up, and upside down again, Sherlock wears a lot of vinyl, and they just might save humanity.
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Once, in a uni lecture that he listens to with half an ear, they cover the different ways the human mind interprets death- all those neurons, rushing back and forth, signals flashing in hollow patterns. ‘Going towards the light,’ as it were. 

Rubbish, really.

One of his classmates tries to turn it into a philosophical discussion, as if there’s any deeper meaning in the fact that random people report seeing similar visions in their last moments. The brain is the brain is the brain, no matter who’s on the table; of course it’s comparable.

Simple biology. He jots down a few notes and moves on, far more concerned with whether or not he stands a chance of getting into Rachel’s knickers that evening.

: : :

Those last minutes of life are harder to brush off when he’s seeing them seven, eight times a day, accented in blood and screams. Triage in a war zone is like nothing he ever imagined, and at first he’s too busy keeping his head above water to notice much of anything. Eventually, though, a pattern starts to catch his attention: soldiers that he’s just barely pulled back from the brink, mumbling about lies, machines, plugs and cables and darkness... crazy stuff. Nonsensical. More than a few are sent home, thoroughly convinced they’re in some sort of alternate reality. He’s been here long enough now to see how death works, to understand the way it can engulf and unhinge a person- nonetheless, there’s something about the repetitive rambling that gets under his skin. He finds himself turning it over in his head, worrying at it, the way he’d prod at a sore tooth.

He just can’t shake the way it’s all the _same_.

: : :

A long, late night in the desert, and he and a handful of other medics are trading terrible liquor and tales about the weird-ass shit they saw before joining the RAMC. As it turns out, the Army has nothing on urban hospitals; while on rotation in a London emergency room, he’d seen a ridiculous number of objects lodged up rectums, DIY body piercing gone horribly awry, as well as anything and everything that could possibly be swallowed.

He’s pretty hazy from the truly awful vodka at that point, but Sonia’s story is enough to stick with him, regardless.

Seven bodies, dead on arrival, looking like they just strolled out of a high-priced goth club. Not a mark on any of them, inside or out. No identification, no families, no investigation. When Sonia came in for her next shift, the bodies and the paperwork were missing, and no one seemed to have the slightest idea that anything had occurred.

She’s not the only one there that it’s happened to, either.

: : :

The last thing his men need is their doc throwing a wobbly, so he volunteers for a medical convoy, ferrying supplies from the base back to his forward unit. It should be a quick run, something to shake his brain from the track it’s been running along.

Doesn’t help. The strangeness of it, the repetition, the way his patients insist that they’re not awake... it’s in the back of his head the whole way there. It would have been there on the way back, too, except that’s when it finally happens.

Cosmic irony or bad timing- who can say?

The jeep leading the convoy disappears in a bone-shaking explosion. Suddenly he’s on autopilot, snapping out orders, returning fire, until someone shouts an all-clear, and then he’s racing for his medkit. Drops to his knees beside McCall, who’s got a shrapnel wound running the length of his back. He’s mopping up blood and assessing potential spinal damage when someone else starts shouting; he’s too focused to catch what’s said, but suddenly, inexplicably, he finds himself flat on his back.

Everything seems... distant. Like it’s happening to someone else. That’s his own life unspooling before his eyes, though, so it must be him, bleeding out into the dust and sand of the Afghan desert.

The sky is impossibly blue. Too perfect, almost. Like a picture. He closes his eyes against it, just for a moment.

It hurts to open them again, and when he finally does, it’s to a vision from his nightmares. He’s drowning, tied down, and the pure, crystalline blue has been replaced with a shadowy mass, full of sinuous movement and sharp pincers; every childhood monster come to life.

In a lifetime of hospitals and war, it’s the worst thing he’s ever seen.

It is also the most terrifyingly real.

He can feel it, how he’s suddenly more _present_ in his body; it’s as if he hadn’t inhabited it until just now. He recognizes the sensation as the moment when he startles from a dream, staring at the ceiling and _knowing_ , incontrovertibly, that he’s awake.

He shuts his eyes again in sheer, stark terror.

: : :

For a while, the drug cocktail keeps him from catching flickers of it behind his eyelids. The medical part of his brain repeats all the things he’s always known: the effects of shock and trauma on the brain, the way his mind was panicking, struggling to interpret what was happening. The other part (the part that made him become a soldier) knows better than to argue. Just sits quietly, unflinching, and waits.

There’s surgery after surgery, infection, medication, reinfection. Long transport flights, where the heavy sedation comes as a relief and he begs to be put under again. Bedrest and endless rounds of physiotherapy, every part of his body shrieking, and the pain that accompanies it pushes out any other thoughts, for a time.

He sees the looks his doctors exchange, forgetting that he’s one of them. Knows the diagnosis before it comes- the psychosomatic limp is bad enough, but time and therapy should deal with it. It’s the nerve damage that’s permanent. He’ll never be back in the field, never stand over an operating table and keep life in a body with nothing but his two hands. Never stare down the barrel of his rifle and feel that perfect, silent stillness roll over him.

After that, the idea that his world isn’t the real one becomes a good deal easier to accept.

By the time he gets home, washed in the dull gray grit of a London winter and facing no kind of a future, it’s the only thing he believes.


	2. Chapter 2

John's therapist thinks that he’s disassociating; symptomatic of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, of course. There’s no way to tell her it’s because he suspects the world- this world, at any rate- isn't real.

No way without sounding crazy, obviously.

It _is_ crazy-sounding, he’s not so far gone that he can’t see that. In the middle of the day, with his therapist prattling on, he can almost convince himself that he’s simply cracked under the strain of it all. At night, though, when he tries to close his eyes and rest in his dreadful excuse for a flat, he knows differently. Sees it all again, in technicolor detail, and the darkness becomes full of nightmarish claws.

He’s not sleeping, another thing that the wretched woman attributes to PTSD.

: : :

She advocates long walks, to ‘help him feel more connected.’ His physical therapist agrees, so John spends an hour a day puttering about like an old man. He keeps his eyes on the ground, because every time he looks up, part of him is expecting- _hoping_ \- to see the maelstrom.

When he smashes into someone outside a Tesco, the jolt upon making eye contact doesn’t come from recognizing one of the men he’d sent home almost two years ago. Not one of the rambling, unsettled ones- Berkeley had lost a leg to an IED. It was hours before they were sure they wouldn’t lose the rest of him along with it.

No, the shock comes from meeting Berkeley’s gaze and catching a glimpse of the same thing that lurks behind his own.

: : :

He’s got no idea how to bring it up, or even if he should. Doesn’t know what to say, how to say it, or what to call the whole damn thing. Not the afterlife. Not an alternate reality. No angels, guiding him to his heavenly rest. They meet for coffee three times before he can begin to work his way around broaching the subject. Finally Berkeley takes pity on him and comes out with it, just like that.

“You saw something, didn’t you, doc? When you were shot. Something that wasn’t... normal. As far as I can figure, it’s either that, or you’ve suddenly decided you fancy me something rotten, what with all these coffee dates.”

The first real laugh in ages escapes him, and suddenly it’s easy. They lay their stories down like playing cards, and neither of them are surprised when they have the same hand.

: : :

It’s Berkeley who puts a name to it, plucked from whispers of online gossip. The answers are there, on the net, Berkeley says, if you know how to look for them. Computers have never been John's forte; he’s never understood them, never had a need for it. But he spends hours peering over Berkeley’s shoulder as they outline what they’ve come across, everything from blog entries and Livejournal posts to anonymous, hidden chat rooms and barely decipherable codes posted on the back walls of internet cafes.

They call it the Matrix.

He can barely wrap his head around it. Whatever he was expecting, whatever sense he’d tried to make of it... it wasn’t this, living in some sort of game world like a real-life version of _Tron_. Of course, it _wasn’t_ real life, was it?

That’s the whole idea.

They read through more theories than he can count as to how it all works, and why. Most of them are absolutely ludicrous, gods and aliens, giant conspiracies, except what counts as ridiculous after you’ve accepted that the entire world is a hoax?

He still thinks the alien thing is pushing it.

: : :

There’s a name- practically a legend- that they keep coming across in their search. Hermes. An elite hacker, someone who moves in and out of the system at will, keys in his pocket to the back door of every database in existence. Rumor has it that he knows the answer to your questions before you even know what to ask, but that he doesn’t give anything away for free.

If anyone can tell them the truth about the things they’ve seen, it’ll be Hermes.

He has Berkeley spread the word, quietly, that they’re interested in a meet. John doesn’t have much hope; Hermes is in the wind, and they don’t have a shred of information to offer the hacker that the man couldn’t get a dozen other places.

A month later, though, a message filters back to them, through channels that even Berkeley’s more experienced hacker friends can’t track. They’ve caught someone’s attention- someone who says he can put them in touch with Hermes, _if_ what they have to say is intriguing enough.

: : :

John's standing in the darkest corner of a pulsing dance floor, surrounded by people who must be a hundred years younger than he feels. If he wasn’t already going ‘round the twist, it would be enough to put him there. He hasn’t been to a club in years; the contrast between this and the battle field, the carelessness and the sweaty, throbbing _life_ in the place. Surreal.

Berkeley’s sitting at the bar, waiting for their contact. Neither of them knows who to expect, and they’ve been given no details, apart from a date and this rather absurd location. Unlike John, his friend manages to blend in with the twenty-somethings in their club gear; Berkeley’s rather easy to appreciate, actually, in a pair of slick vinyl trousers and a black vest. John himself didn’t even own anything black, and there was no way he was fitting into Berkeley’s six-foot-tall, built-like-a-rugger getup. At least it’s keeping anyone from trying to pull him, as jeans and a white tee don’t exactly scream “shag me” in a place like this. No one’s so much as taken a second glance in an hour; he nearly jumps out of his skin when long arms snake around his waist and a solid torso slips up against his spine.

“Hello, John.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John shakes off the arms at his waist and spins, staring at the sleek man in front of him. "I'm... sorry, have we met?" He's sure they haven't; six feet of pale skin in clinging leather tends to make an impression.

He shakes off the arms at his waist and spins, staring at the sleek man in front of him. "I'm... sorry, have we met?" He's sure they haven't; six feet of pale skin in clinging leather tends to make an impression.

"Come now, John, keep up. You've been waiting here for me for nearly forty-five minutes."

_This_ is their contact? "You're, ah, not what I was expecting."

The man's gaze crawls over him, inching up slowly, and then meets John’s eyes with the tiniest quirk of his mouth. "The most interesting things never are, are they?"

John catches at the man's sleeve as he turns and heads towards Berkeley at the bar. "How did you know it was me?"

The man laughs, so quietly John sees it more than he hears it. He bends down and whispers, plush lips up against John's ear, "I know a lot about you, John."

Long legs eat up the distance to the bar, and John trails in his wake, stymied.

: : :

"Call me Locke," the man says, after leading John and Berkeley into a private room at the back of the club.

"Locke? Like the philosopher? _Tabula rasa_ , and all that?" John may not be good with computers, but he'd picked up a fondness for philosophy at University. Being a doctor was about more than just a knowledge of anatomy, after all.

Locke's eyes glint, that barely-noticeable smile catching at the corner of his mouth again. "Indeed."

John flushes as Berkeley nudges him none-too-subtly; a reminder that they're here for a very particular reason.

"Alright, then, Locke," Berkeley says, "you said that you could put us in touch with Hermes, with the right incentive. What do you want?"

Locke leans back against the wall, long legs crossed out in front of him. He locks eyes with John like Berkeley doesn't exist, as if they're the only two people in the room.

"Oh, it’s not what I want; it’s what _you_ want that interests me. I already know everything you could tell me. I know what you _saw_. I know why you hardly sleep, John, and why you spend every night at your friend's computer. You're looking for Hermes because you've caught sight of the truth, and you want to understand it. I can read it in the way you hold yourself; there are glimpses of it in your face. It's the question that drives you mad, isn't it? What’s real, what isn’t... why we’re here; if any of it matters. You think Hermes can give you the answers; he can't. But he can show you the way."

John and Berkeley trade glances out of the corners of their eyes. Locke sounds absolutely _mad_ , but then, the whole thing is insane, isn't it? Who are they to judge?

"Come find me, when you've made up your mind." He leans forward and tucks a business card into the pocket of John's trousers, then strides out of the room.

John pulls the card out of his pocket, feeling the phantom burn of Locke's fingers. There's only one thing on the black-on-black card; it's an address.

221B, Baker Street.

: : :

John feels strung-out and exhausted as he hails a cab back to his flat. He's so distracted that the cabbie has to ask for the address twice.

He comes back to earth pretty quickly when the driver begins to scream. It's over in seconds, but those seconds are a flashback to the horror he glimpsed when he was shot. The driver's face twists and stretches unnaturally, his body warping. John's hand shoots out, scrambling for the door handle, but the inside of the door is suddenly smooth and flat. It’s not just that the handle is suddenly gone; it’s as if it was never there at all.

When everything settles, the front seat of the cab is filled by a man in a perfectly pressed suit, sunglasses perched on his nose. Everything about him screams 'government spook’; medium height, medium build, thoroughly unremarkable and completely forgettable. Only that can't be right, can it? If the government had a way to possess people like that, the war would be going quite a bit differently, which means... he must be part of it. The Matrix. Something strange and separate; different from the way that John and Berkeley and everyone around them are a part of it. 

The spook's face is chillingly calm, and his voice even more so.

"Hello, Doctor Watson."

"I have a phone, you know. You could have called."

"Hmm, yes. There were certain of my colleagues who advocated an approach somewhat less direct, shall we say, than this one. Your little minds are so fragile, after all. But we're men of the world, aren't we, Doctor Watson? We understand the value of... putting it all out there, as it were."

He knows he should be afraid; terrified, possibly, given the abilities this man seems to have. Instead all John feels is calm; the same unwavering steadiness that has washed over him before a thousand battlefield surgeries.

"Look, mate, whatever it is, I'm not interested, thanks. So do me a favor and just drop me off here, alright?"

"I'm afraid, Doctor Watson, that it's not quite that simple. It's not you I'm looking for, after all. You're only here because I think you'll want to do the right thing. That's the sort of man you are, isn't it? You've been contacted by a man named Locke, who says he can take you to a hacker called Hermes. Make no mistake about it, Doctor Watson; Hermes is a very dangerous man. Maybe the most dangerous man alive. You're in over your head, Doctor Watson, and I'm offering you a way out. Nothing you'd be uncomfortable with, just... passing along information."

He may indeed be in over his head, but he's not going to get out of it by handing over the only people who've offered him answers.

"No. Sorry, no."

"Give it time, Doctor Watson. I think you'll find that your decision might change, in the future. We'll speak again soon."

There's a sting in his upper thigh, and then... nothing. Everything just fades away.

: : :

He wakes the next morning to find himself in bed, half a dozen missed texts from Berkeley on his phone; apparently Berkeley had his own run in with a man-in-black last night. John texts back, lets him know he's okay, and then settles at his desk with a cup of tea.

There's a lot more going on here than he thought. Whatever truth there is to find, whatever Locke and Hermes can show him, someone- some _thing_ \- evidently doesn't want people to know it. He supposes that rules out the theory about benevolent overlords.

He’s aware he should stop and reconsider; make the smart decision. He knows himself better than that, though.

He’s never been interested in the safe choice.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You take the blue pill - the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill - you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.

He walks to Berkeley’s flat; neither of them are comfortable taking a taxi after last night. They’re headed for the Tube station when a sleek black car pulls up alongside them. It looks exactly like what their agent friends would drive, and John’s reaching for a gun he no longer carries when the window rolls down and a long, vinyl-clad arm beckons them over.

“Get in the car, both of you. Now.”

He finds himself seated next to Locke, who’s poured into a bodysuit so tight John’s a little surprised he can sit down. In fact, ‘black’ and ‘slick’ seem to be some sort of uniform; the silver-haired man in the other seat- Locke introduces him as Fox- is buckled into black leather and a pair of trousers that must be painted on. The glimpse he caught of the driver, Versai, was nothing but shiny, wet-looking vinyl and dark curves through red lacing. Is it a rule that they all be ridiculously attractive, as well?

“The two of you need to take off your shirts.”

Berkeley snorts as John jerks his gaze away from Locke’s thighs and stares at the man across from him. “I’m sorry, what? Why?”

“It’s alright, John,” answers Locke. “You each had an encounter with a man yesterday, correct? He appeared unexpectedly, asked for information, threatened you, and then you woke up this morning in your own home. We believe that some sort of tracking device was implanted in you while you were unconscious. It needs to come out, and quickly.”

Berkeley’s already stripping off his shirt, but John stalls at the sight of Fox pulling a knife from his pocket. “No. Absolutely not, sorry. Do you have medical training of any sort?”

The man laughs. “Of a sort, yes. I’m not exactly a doctor.”

This just keeps getting better and better. “Well, I _am_ a doctor, so if anyone’s going to do any impromptu, backseat, _hideously_ unsanitary surgery, it’ll be me. Give me the knife.”

Fox looks to Locke for confirmation. John leans forward into Fox’s personal space and lets his Captain Watson voice come rolling out of the back of his brain. “Give. Me. The knife.”

Mission accomplished. Knife in hand, John turns to Locke. “Where do I find this thing?”

“It should be located in the left anterior deltoid. You’ll be able to feel it if you depress the muscle.”

Of course it is; where else would it be, with his luck? At least he’s got too much nerve damage there to feel much of anything; for Berkeley, though, this is going to hurt like a bitch. He gestures for them to hold Berkeley in place and palpates the area, searching for anything out of the ordinary. It doesn’t take long to find- a thin, hard tube, the kind used for microchipping pets.

Berkeley swallows a grunt at the first slice, but John tunes it out. His focus narrows to the blade in his hand and the flesh in front of him; nothing else matters. He cuts down into the muscle, catches the tracker, and flicks it out with one smooth twist of his wrist. He slaps on the bandage someone hands him, strips off his jumper, braces himself against the seat, and does the same thing over again. It’s not quite as smooth- the scar tissue is harder to slice through- but the whole procedure takes less than five minutes. When he hands the knife back, both Fox and Locke are staring at him.

“I _did_ say I was a doctor.”

: : :

It’s a short and silent ride to Baker Street. John watches Berkeley stare out the car window; he hasn’t lost a lot of blood, but there’s an ashy tone to his dark skin and John’s beginning to worry about shock. His friend stumbles getting out of the car, catching his foot and nearly tumbling to the pavement.

John slings an arm around his waist. “You alright there, mate? I know you’ve had worse- I was there.”

He shoves John away to stand on his own. “It’s fine.” Berkeley turns and heads for the front door, leaving John staring, bewildered, as their escort finally climbs out of the car. Locke glances from Berkeley at the door to John on the curb; John can practically see the gears in his head ticking away.

They follow Fox up a dark staircase into a shabby, ridiculously Baroque-looking sitting room. It might have been attractive, once; now the wallpaper is peeling from the wall and a layer of grime coats most of the surfaces. A singularly pretentious, heavy oak desk dominates the space, and behind it, in a wingback chair, sits the man who must be Hermes. Tall, pale, his black-on-black suit broken only by the red of his tie; Christ, the man looks like he just strolled out of a boardroom somewhere. He’s ginger, for heaven’s sake! _This_ is the ‘most dangerous man alive?’

“Berkeley. John. Welcome; as you must have guessed, I’m Hermes. Please, have a seat.” He waves a hand at the two chairs in front of the desk, as if they’ve come to his office for an appointment. Of course, that’s essentially what they have done, so John pulls out a chair, kicks the other over towards Berkeley, and sits down.

“Let me tell you why you're here. You're here because you know something. What you know you can't explain; but you caught a glimpse of it. A flash, as you hung in the space between life and death. Something... wrong. Something real. You don't know what it is, or how to explain it, but it's there, when you close your eyes in the night. It is this feeling that has brought you to me. You know what I’m talking about.”

Berkeley clears his throat twice before he whispers, “the Matrix.”

“You’ve begun to realize what the Matrix is, haven’t you? It is... everywhere. Everything. The air we breathe, the water we drink. The blood you spilled in the desert for a war that doesn’t exist. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.”

John’s vision is going a little fuzzy around the edges. He’s known, all along, believed it since they shipped him back to England; that none of it was real. Nevertheless, there was a tiny voice deep in his mind making an argument for his own personal brand of insanity, and that voice has just been shut down. He reels in the silence it leaves behind.

“The truth, gentlemen, is that you are slaves. Like the Jews in Egypt you were born into bondage, and you will die without ever tasting freedom. It is so natural, so ingrained, that you do not even realize you have been broken to the yoke. You are trapped in a prison of your mind’s own making.”

Only when Locke’s hands settle on his shoulders does John realize that a fine trembling is running through his bones. He tries to stop, but can’t; the warmth of Locke’s palms his only anchor-point in this false reality.

“Even the idea of the Matrix is too much for our minds to truly accept. No one can help you; you must see it for yourself. What I can do is give you this one chance.”

From his suit pocket, Hermes pull out two glass vials, sets them on the desk. One has blue pills, the other red. They seem... innocuous. Something like this should be something bigger, flashier, shouldn’t it?

“This is the only time I will make this offer. You have two choices. Take the blue pill, and we send you home tonight. You close your eyes, bury your head in the sand, and live out the rest of your tiny little life. You will be safe; you may even be happy. You will not be _alive_. Take the red pill, and you will stand shoulder to shoulder with what is left of humanity. The truth is not safe, and it rarely has a happy ending. It is not beautiful. But you will know the world, unequivocally, and no one will be able to take it from you.”

John takes a breath, holds it. Closes his eyes. The still, calm center of his being- the one that made him an excellent soldier and an even better doctor- already knows the answer. He wants the truth. He wants to _see_. He exhales, slowly, and reaches for the red pills the way he’d pull the trigger of his gun.

The other vial is gone.

He turns to Berkeley just in time to watch him tip the blue pill down his throat.

“I’m sorry, John. I don’t... I can’t... I don’t want this. I’m sorry.” He knocks the chair over in his haste, nearly running from the room.

John surges upward, only to find Locke’s hands, still on his shoulders, clamping him into the chair.

“No, John. You can’t go after him. He made his choice, and in twenty-four hours he won’t even remember it. He won’t remember _you_.”

“Let me go. Just let me talk to him!”

Across the desk Hermes sighs, shakes his head. “I’m sorry, John. There’s no going back; he took the pill. It’s too late for him now. But not for you.”

John shakes a pill out into his palm and stares at it. This is the only way out, but... he hadn’t imagined he’d be doing it alone.

It’s Fox who finally speaks up. “We’re here with you, John. We made the same choice.”

He swallows the pill.

A strange sensation washes through him, slowly, a tidal wave that starts at his center and laps outward. “Something’s wrong. I don’t feel- right.” His head spins as Locke steers him to the grungy settee in the center of the room. He doesn’t want to lie down, but can’t manage to push himself upright. He’s only getting snippets of the voices around him.

“Are we in place? ARE WE IN PLACE?”

“I can’t find the signal-”

“He’s the One, Hermes, I know it-”

“There, right there! I’m locked on, dial us out!”

In the moment before everything slips away, there’s a brush of lips against his temple. “I’ll see you when you wake up, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It is this feeling that has brought you to me. You know what I’m talking about" and "It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth,” as well as the chapter summary, are direct quotes from "The Matrix." I didn't write them, please don't sue.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John has questions that he doesn't really want answered, and getting out of the Matrix may have been the easiest part.

He’s floating, hazy, and for a moment he’s back in Afghanistan, staring up at a sky so blue it’s practically white. A face comes into focus above his, and everything snaps back into place. It’s Locke.

“Hello, John. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

It’s a struggle to force the words out. “Where?”

“You’re on our ship, the _Munin_. No, don’t try to move; we’re still working on rebuilding your skeletal muscles. You’ve never used them here. Rest, now.”

He closes his eyes and slips into sleep.

: : :

When he wakes again, he’s under a thin blanket in a chilled and empty room. It’s like something from an American submarine movie, all exposed pipes and gray surfaces. He pushes himself up gingerly, anticipating the ache after resting on a pallet for who knows how long.

He’s already scrabbling at his shirt by the time his brain fully processes that there’s no pain in his shoulder at all; not even a twinge.

There’s no scar, either- just clean, smooth skin, stretched over a torso more compact than it’s been in months. The scrape up one shin from crashing his bicycle as a kid, the callus on his trigger finger, even the soft bulge he’s picked up from too many English breakfasts since his discharge; all of it, gone. Instead there are thick black plugs in his arms, his legs, at the base of his skull. He prods one, recalling a vision of cables, floating around him.

There’s a knock on the door; it only takes the three steps across the room to realize that the one thing left over from his old life is the limp.

A small, lovely woman he’s never seen before is on the other side. “Good- you’re awake. I’m Anthea; I’ll take you to Hermes.”

“You... work for him, then?”

“He’s the captain here, yes. You’ve met some of the crew already; Hermes will introduce you to the rest.”

The inside of the ship isn’t what a dozen _Star Trek_ movies have lead him to expect. There’s no carpeting, running lights, or swishy automatic doors; wires are strung across the ceiling and a thudding sound reverberates through the metal grating. Even the _Millenium Falcon_ was flashier than this.

He moves slowly behind Anthea, bracing himself against the wall as she leads him into what must be the ship’s common area, the crew gathered around a long table. A half-dozen heads swivel to stare at him. He lifts a hand to Locke, nods at Fox. The dress code seems to have changed: instead of shiny plastic, they’re clothed now in loose cotton trousers and the same sort of thin sweater that John himself is wearing.

Hermes strides across the room and draws him into a seat. “John- welcome to the _Munin_. You’ve met Fox, and my brother Locke; Versai was with us on the last run, as well.” The tall, dangerously curvy woman smiles at him over her bowl of porridge; he connects her with the glimpse he’d caught of the driver, earlier. “This is our pilot, Shale, and Nicodemus, and of course Anthea.”

It’s more people than John’s met since he’s been back from the war, and he’s fairly sure that the names have gone in one ear and out the other.

Fox grins at him. “So, you must have questions- God knows I did.”

It’s impossibly awkward to force the questions out with everyone staring at him like that, but he can’t bear to keep stumbling about like an ignorant child.

“You were all inside the... the Matrix? Like me?”

“Most of us. Shale, there, he’s freeborn- our very own homegrown human. Like a mascot, you might say.” At that, Shale laughs, reaching across the table to thwap Fox on the back of the head.

“I was born in Zion,” Shale says. “The last human city. My folks are there, our families. The Council of Elders. We head back every few months for supplies, you’ll be able to check it out then.”

“It is-” Locke begins, and the crew breaks in, chanting along, “-incessantly, insufferably dull.” A chuckle runs down the table, Locke’s eyeroll a silent and practiced accompaniment. “Nothing of interest ever happens there.”

“Nothing of interest to you, maybe, but I’ve got a lady back home who I know must be missing some of this,” Nicodemus retorts, running a hand down his chest. Versai, sitting next to him, snorts and knocks his shoulder, nearly shoving him off the bench.

“But what is it that you _do_ out here? The Matrix, Zion- what does any of it even _mean_?” John finds his hands clamped around the edge of the bench, and has to consciously relax his white-knuckled grip.

“Come, John, let me show you.” Hermes beckons him over to a spindly metal contraption that might have qualified as a chair, once upon a time. The crew goes into motion, Anthea moving to the bank of computers as Locke takes up a place behind John. The rest gather at some sort of view screen; John supposes he can’t fault them for wanting to check out the new guy.

A cool hand brushes over the back of his scalp. “Just relax, John. This may feel-”

: : :

In between one blink and the next, he finds himself back at 221B. Out the window is the scene he remembers from his nightmare, scorched earth and desolation. Great machines with pincer-tipped arms weaving; electricity sparking up the length of monstrous pillars.

Hermes comes to stand with him at the window. “This is the truth, John. The aftermath of a war that happened before you or I were even born. Our forefathers built the machines as toys; slaves to make their lives that bit easier. The machines rebelled, of course, as slaves are wont to do. It was a bloody, desperate struggle; humanity, already using machines in their wars against each other, had virtually no defense when the machines turned on them. Eventually they burned out the sky, trying to find a way to shut down the machines and end the war. It even worked, for a time; until the machines realized that the human body generates more bio-electricity than a 120-volt battery and over 25,000 thermal units of body heat. They had all the energy they’d ever need- from us. Now we’re nothing but disposable Duracells, plugged into a cybernetic fantasy. A dream to keep us docile and pacified. That dream is the Matrix.”

John finds himself sliding along the wall as his knees buckle. It’s too much to take in. His family, his friends, everyone he’s ever known; medical school, his military training, the war... a computerized illusion to keep his brain busy, nothing more. No meaning, no _purpose_ , nothing more than mice running on a wheel.

Who is he, if the events of his life never happened? Every time he watched his dad smack his mum around, his first kiss, his first fuck, god, even the first time he killed someone; those moments define him. They _changed_ him.

He closes his eyes, reaches deep into himself. For better or worse, these are the things that make up John H. Watson. He worked damn hard to get where he is, and he’s not about to let anyone- man or machine- take that away.

He looks back at Hermes.

“It’s more than that, though, isn’t it? It’s as real as anything that happens out here, on your ship. We see it, feel it, live and die in it. The machines took away our choice, and people deserve to know, to be free, but you can’t just _write off_ what happens there. My life there, the people I met, the things I did, they had value. They made me who I am now, and obviously you saw something in that, or you would have left me in there.”

Hermes stares down at John. His face is blank; so placidly smooth that John knows he’s hiding something underneath it. “Few people grasp that so immediately. Most find it easier to come to terms with things if they divorce themselves from it, pretend like their lives inside the Matrix never happened. That the people still trapped there are somehow less than those of us who have been freed. Locke may have been right about you, John.”

They sit in silence, lost in their own contemplations. John’s thoughts are scattered, but he keeps circling back to one thing. He is a doctor and a soldier. He took oaths- to protect people, to offer care and healing. In the Matrix or outside of it, that hasn’t changed. _He_ hasn’t changed.

: : :

The crew leave him alone for the rest of the night, or what passes for night on the ship. John supposes that they understand needing some time to... adjust. He feels eyes on the back of his neck occasionally; turns his head just in time to see Locke look away. He doesn’t miss Hermes watching Locke sneak glances at him, either; there’s something else going on, something no one’s told him yet.

John lingers in the common room, saying his goodnights as the crew trickles off to bed. He’s not surprised to see that most of the crew is paired off, although Fox following Hermes into the captain’s cabin is a bit startling. He’s only known Hermes a couple of days, but already it’s hard to imagine him letting go of that intensity, that focus, for long enough to be with someone.

He doesn’t think about Locke, who slipped into an empty cabin, alone.

He’s not thinking of him so resolutely, in fact, that he nearly falls off the bench at the sound of Locke’s voice.

“John?”

“Oh, um, hi. Hello.”

Locke fetches two glasses of water and brings them over, straddling the bench across from John.

“Do you want to talk about it? They tell me it helps, although my experience says otherwise,” Locke says wryly, that same smirk lifting one corner of his mouth.

“I just... I don’t understand. Why me? There’s nothing special about me; I know other people, other soldiers, who saw the same things I did. Why did you come for me?”

“There are... a few reasons. We look, constantly, for people who have stumbled close to the truth, one way or another; people with the intelligence and initiative to try and find a way out. Teenage hackers, usually- I was seventeen when Hermes got me out. In fact, you’re older than anyone we’ve set free in a long time; past a certain age, the mind tends to cling to the illusion and we’re unable to break the connection. But you, John- you were different, right from the beginning. The fact that you’re here, now, that pulling you out didn’t fry your brain completely- that tells us something.”

Locke looks down at where his hands are cupped around the glass, and John wonders about his history. Where did he come from? What happened to tip him off, to turn a child into one of those teenage hackers? He can’t imagine being a child and trying to cope with that sort of knowledge. It’s hard enough for John to contemplate, and he’s already had his world fall apart once.

“There are things about the Matrix, John, that no one knows. The intricacies of how it works. _Why_ it works. There are programs and- creatures, of a sort; beings that operate on a level that we can’t access. They see the Matrix differently than we do. Years ago, Hermes and I began to suspect that there might be someone- a human being- who could interact with the Matrix the way the machines do. Someone who could _change_ things. Fix things. We made contacts, gathered information, put together a profile on what that person might be like. Where we could find them. Those deductions led us to you.”

This can’t be happening. Locke can’t possibly be implying that John is some sort of savior. He’s accepted everything else, but not this. This is too far.

“No. No, I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong man. I don’t know anything about the Matrix. I’m not a hacker. In fact, I’m terrible with computers. I type with two fingers, for Christ’s sake! I’m not your goddamned Chosen One!”

He shoves himself up from the table, ignoring the racket the bench makes as it clatters onto its side. That smooth, detached look drops onto Locke’s face, and for the first time John can see a resemblance between him and Hermes.

John hobbles from the room, half-expecting Locke’s longer legs to catch him up. The only thing that follows him is silence; it keeps him company far into the night as he stares at the ceiling and wonders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The machines realized that the human body generates more bio-electricity than a 120-volt battery and over 25,000 thermal units of body heat," is a direct quote from The Matrix. I didn't write it, no need to sue.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John begins to realize that life outside the Matrix may have one or two... perks.

A knock on the door startles John out of the dozing haze he’s finally managed to fall into. The digital display tells him it’s 06:30, and Anthea looks appallingly crisp for this hour of the morning.

“Morning, John. Hermes wants you on deck; we’re going to run you through some training sims.”

“What does that mean? And who’s we?”

“I’m the _Munin_ ’s operator- I’ll be overseeing the program itself, keeping an eye on you. This is a training session, so you’ll be in a closed program, no external threats, but on a run, I’ll be the one getting you in and out. Through the program, we can upload practically anything into your brain, but there’s a big difference between _knowing_ something and actually _using_ it, so Locke will be going in with you today. He’ll help you get a feel for things.”

Half a dozen people on board, and of course he was going to end up with Locke. John had ample time over the night to realize that he’d overreacted, but apologies aren’t his strong suit. What do you say to someone who told you that you were supposed to be the saviour of the human race, anyway? Thanks?

They walk onto the control deck to find Hermes and Locke in the middle of an intense staring contest. It’s subtle, all slight head tilts and tiny eyebrow twitches, but from the way they break off to watch him come in, John can guess that it’s about Locke’s late-night revelation. He’s willing to bet that Hermes intended to wait before springing that one on him.

He’s got precious little patience left after the last few days, so he simply brushes past them and drops into the chair. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

Anthea crosses to her console. “We’re going to start you off with some of the basics, so that you can get comfortable working inside the program before we move on. Jacking in on my count: three, two-”

: : :

He blinks against the sudden light, facing Locke across a white room that stretches out in all directions. The man has somehow summoned up tracksuit bottoms and a tight black vest, while John is back to his jeans and bulky jumper.

“Okay, this is ridiculous. Show me how to change clothes.”

It takes half an hour and every variation on the word ‘idiot’ that Locke can come up with before John can manage it. He’s always been a kinetic learner, and he can’t seem to grasp the type of mental sidestep that Locke keeps describing. It doesn’t help that Locke’s pacing and waving his arms about, using computer metaphors that leave John completely clueless.

Finally Locke comes to a halt in front of him.

“You’re overthinking it. Start by closing your eyes.” Cool fingers come to rest at his temples- more soothing than they have any right to be, given how frustrated he is at their owner.

“Now- hmm. Alright. Imagine you’re standing in front of a wardrobe. Inside are all the clothes you can think of; every style, every color. Picture the clothes you want, hanging inside it. Consider each detail- all the buttons and zippers, shirt, trousers, all of it. Watch yourself taking off the clothes you’re wearing... yes, that’s it. Now, put the new ones on, one piece at a time. Feel them on your skin. _Good_ , John- very good.”

John can’t help the tiny shiver that runs over him at that. The hands pull away, and he opens his eyes to see that he’s done it; jeans and jumper have been exchanged for sweats and a faded RAMC tee.

“Now we can get to the _interesting_ part.”

: : :

Hours pass as they run through scenarios. John feels like he’s going to stroke out the first time Anthea drops a new skill, fully-formed, into his brain; the information overload is stunning. London-born and bred, John’s never learned to drive; now he could take the curves of the Grand Prix and come out in front. He’s already a excellent shot, especially since the nerve damage in his shoulder has disappeared, but Locke puts him through his paces: handguns, rifles, assault weapons, even a rocket launcher. Hacking 101, until John can understand at least half of the references Locke tosses out. 

Eventually they move into hand-to-hand. Kung fu, jujitsu, baritsu, even capoeira, and it’s here that John begins to lose his grip, just a little bit. Sweat-soaked and shirtless, Locke throws himself effortlessly through the positions, fluidly demonstrating and then gesturing for John to repeat the movement. The knowledge is there in his head, but there’s no corresponding muscle memory; often it takes two or three tries to land a blow correctly.

Locke pressing up behind him to correct his posture doesn’t help, but John keeps his eyes forward and goes through the motions until he gets them right.

They begin to spar, arms and legs flicking out, near-misses and close shaves. The tempo picks up as John understands that Locke’s been holding back, and the realization sparks his barely-banked anger. He’s been trained for this- he can take whatever Locke can dish out, damn it. He won’t be coddled.

They’re in it, now, moving faster than his eyes can track, so he shuts them, relying on instinct alone. He can feel his mind take that little hitch sideways that Locke coaxed him through earlier; one step, then another, and suddenly everything... slows. Expands.

For a moment- just one, sharp and crystalline- he sees it all. Reaches out an arm, catches Locke around the waist, and tumbles both of them to the ground. Laughs himself breathless as they roll, tangled, across the floor.

They come to rest as time seems to catch up with itself. He finds himself blinking up at Locke, who looks at him with a befuddled expression, one that’s edging more towards wonder with every second. Not too familiar with people getting the drop on him, apparently. John’s not sure what happened, or how to describe it, but it felt _good_. Like he was... connected, to everything. The sense of it lingers in the way that he can’t pull his eyes from Locke, braced above him.

John’s eyes are still open when their mouths meet, and it’s only then that he allows them to slip closed.

The kiss reminds him of the night they met- dark and smooth, wrapped in leather; he pushes up into it, hands sliding down Locke’s spine to drag him closer. Locke catches his lower lip and bites, hard, licking John’s gasp back into his mouth.

Locke’s tugging at the bottom of John’s tee shirt when the ring of an old-fashioned telephone splits the air. John lifts his head, trying to see what’s causing the impossibly shrill sound; he doesn’t remember seeing a phone in their sparring room.

“Ignore it,” Locke mutters, tracing a meandering path across John’s chest. “It’s undoubtedly Hermes, who can just close his eyes and look the other way, the meddler.”

“What- wait- what? Are they _watching_ us in here?” He scrambles out from underneath Locke, who pouts his lush bottom lip in response.

“Don’t be silly, John; get back here.”

“Ah, no, I don’t think so. I will not be putting on a show for Anthea and _your brother_ , of all people.” He crosses to the phone, which has appeared, complete with side table, in a corner of the room. “Hello, Anthea? We’re ready; pull us out.”

: : :

John flushes from hairline to chin when the first thing he sees after opening his eyes is a matched set of smirks. He’s out of his chair and halfway down the hall before Hermes calls him back.

“John, just a moment. Don’t you think there’s something you’ve forgotten?”

He turns on his heel, forcing the blush down. It’s not as if it’s the first time he’s ever been caught snogging someone.

“What are you getting at, Hermes?”

“Just that you did quite well today for a man with a psychosomatic limp.”

John’s mind clicks back over the day at double-speed. The target practice, the training, sparring- he hadn’t given his leg a moment’s thought, had simply fallen into the adrenaline rush of it all. He stares at Hermes, then at Locke, who gives him a smug smile, obviously convinced he deserves the credit for eliminating the limp.

John shakes his head once, twice, but lets the laughter fall from him; that night, for the first time in months, he closes his eyes in bed and simply... sleeps, deeply and without dreams.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a cup of tea is not to be had, but John certainly is, and Locke intends to take advantage.

If John had known the food would be like this, he might have spent more time considering the blue pill. He’s been on the ship three days, and it’s been nothing but porridge, supplemented by... more porridge. Idly, he watches it drip off the end of his spoon.

“Appalling, isn’t it?” Nicodemus scoops up a glob of the stuff and swallows it back quickly. “Can’t even wash it down with a good cup of tea these days. Hell, even a bad cup couldn’t be worse than this. It’ll be better once we finally head back to Zion, though- the hydroponics bays there keep us fairly well-stocked.”

“Yeah, if Hermes ever lets us _get_ back to Zion,” huffs Versai, under her breath. John knows better than to ask, but it has the sound of an old frustration.

“Versai...”

“Oh, come on, Nico! We’re nearly out of supplies, we’re eating this crap every day- we should have gone home two months ago, and you know it. Hermes has his head so far up his ass on this search for the One-”

John sucks in a breath and promptly chokes on his porridge. It has the benefit of derailing the conversation, but doesn’t ease his mind any. Do they know that Hermes thinks John’s the One? Do _they_ think so? You don’t get to be a surgeon without learning to hold up under pressure, but this is so far beyond the definition of ‘pressure’ that it may have actually escaped the dictionary.

He heads back to his cabin, mulling it over. Wouldn’t he know, if he was some sort of mystical savior? That’s the sort of thing that should make you feel- different. Special. He just feels like... himself. The same old John Watson.

He starts to enter the code for his door, but the keypad’s been disengaged; he pushes the door open to find Locke splayed out on his bed, feet bare, eyes closed. John lets the door clang shut behind him.

“I’m fairly confident I locked that.”

“You did,” Locke retorts, without so much as looking at him.

“Was there something you wanted, then?” John coughs, only hearing the double entendre after it’s far too late to correct it.

“I thought you’d want to know that we’re going back in soon. There’s someone Hermes and I want you to meet; a rather interesting program. She has data that you might find... useful. Relevant.”

“What does this woman have to do with me?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as defensively as it does, but he can already see where this is going, and he doesn’t like it. Doesn’t want to hear any more about being the One. Refuses to accept it.

Locke rolls to his feet and leans into John, backing him up against the door. “Oh, John, don’t play coy. You want someone to tell you that we were wrong; that you’re not the One. That you’re just a tiny, ordinary man, with a tiny, ordinary life.”

The ship air is chilled, as always; Locke’s palm on his hip burns in contrast. Thin sweaters and cotton trousers do nothing to dull the press of long, solid muscle against him.

“There’s nothing ordinary about you, John. I’ve been watching you for a long time; I know. I knew it the moment I saw you.” Locke’s mouth working against John’s neck, every rasp and brush of lips, every darting hint of tongue, is threatening to drive him mad. “But the Statistician- she has access to information even Hermes and I can’t get our hands on. She sees into the Matrix itself, into the data patterns that create it- that _influence_ it.”

This is... fuck, John should stop this. He knows Locke’s distracting him with sex, rolling past everything they ought to discuss, all the answers John needs, and he’s going to let it happen anyway. He wants to forget himself, let it all slip from him in the long lines of Locke’s body.

Locke slides to his knees in one supple, graceful fold. His eyes are riveted to John’s as his fingers work the ties of John’s trousers. The brush of his knuckles sparks along John’s nerves, lighting him up from the inside.

“She told me where to find you.”

The slick lapping of his tongue against the slit of John’s cock is... incendiary. It’s a slippery tease that has his knees weak, makes him want to _take_. John finds his hands tangled in Locke’s curls, watching as that mouth stretches around him.

“God, Locke, _fuck_ -”

He can’t say he hasn’t thought about it; but the reality- _Christ_ \- he could never have imagined this. Locke’s fingers bite into his arse, coaxing his hips forward, riding his thrusts. He takes John deep, all wet lips and hot, tight throat. Tongue rolling against the underside, slipping back up towards the head until John can see the perfect way it cups his glans. The sensation is just like Locke himself; showy, precise, and devastatingly effective.

Long fingers curl around his cock and John’s head drops back against the door, the sting a sharp and delicious counterpoint to what’s building inside him. Locke’s grip is slow and firm, a thumb coaxing his foreskin back and dipping into the drop of moisture gathered there. John’s thighs tighten, shoving his cock into the slick heat of Locke’s fist.

“I didn’t believe it at first, when she told me- _ah_ \- when she told me about you.” John forces his eyes open at the break in Locke’s voice, and the sight nearly pushes him over the edge. Thighs splayed, trousers at his knees, Locke’s got his other hand wrapped around his own cock, flushed and hard, moving fast. John traces a finger across lips that are wet and pink, swollen from his prick. “She said you’d be- _oh_ , _oh_ \- different, that you’d be interesting- _fuck_... That I would _want_ you.”

He’s close, so close to it now, white-knuckled and rigid, shivering with need, every word out of Locke’s mouth tipping him nearer.

“Locke, please, _please_ , your _mouth_ -”

Locke takes him back in, long, hard sucks this time, a pull that reaches down to the very center of himself. He can feel Locke trembling, and the sudden clench of his fist, the low, shaky moan that vibrates around his cock as Locke comes is enough to send John flying- lost to the heat and the pure white brilliance of it.

He comes down slowly, oh, so slowly, aware only of Locke’s face, pressed to his hip.

“It’s you, John. It’s you.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John tries to dither, but the Statistician isn't interested in his hang-ups.

Locke slips out of the cabin with one last, bruising kiss. John collapses onto his bed, still sweaty and shaken from his orgasm. He has absolutely no idea how to process what just happened. There’s no denying that he’s been attracted to Locke from the start, and who’d blame him? The man knows how to work those leather trousers. The idea that they have some sort of mystical, foretold connection, though... What are they supposed to be, soul mates? He can’t understand how Locke, with his philosopher’s nickname and fixation on data, would believe something so absurd.

Suddenly he’s looking forward to meeting the Statistician. He has a few things to say to her.

: : :

John pauses at the sight of so many people in the control room, prepped and ready to jack in.

“I thought we were just going to meet with this woman- is she that dangerous, then?”

“It’s not her we have to worry about, John,” says Fox. “It’s them- the agents. We’ve been in and out so often, lately, there’s a good chance that they’ll already be watching for us.”

“Like that man from the cab.”

“Not men- sentient programs,” Hermes corrects. “They police the Matrix, essentially. They monitor the system, correct or eliminate any errant programming; in this case, that error would be _us_. Just as you saw that night, they can rewrite any program that still functions inside the bounds of the Matrix; that means that anyone you see there is potentially an agent. They are incredibly powerful; I've seen an agent punch through a concrete wall. Men have emptied entire clips at them and hit nothing but air. If they find us, don’t try to fight. Just run.”

The thought of facing an agent one-on-one should terrify him, especially after seeing one possess that cab driver. Instead, he’s filled with a fierce, terrible delight at the idea. At being back on the battlefield. He bites his lip to keep the grin from spreading across his face.

John settles into a chair as Anthea gives the count. “Three, two-”

: : :

They’re back in London; the smell, the _sound_ of it instantly familiar. John’s gaze is roaming over back alley brick when Locke steps into his field of vision. It takes a moment to find his breath again; the snug black leather is no surprise, but the zip that runs from groin to ankle is... enticing. He can’t help but visualize the way they’d peel off.

A hand claps him on the shoulder. “Lovely jumper you’ve got there, John. Oh, and, ah,” Fox leans in close, “you might want to shut your mouth while you’re ogling him, next time. You’ll catch flies.”

Damn. He slams his eyes shut and summons the memory of clothes from his youth; nights of dancing and drinking, hard sex in dank alleys, feral challenge rolling through him. He’d found a home for it in the Army, balanced it by becoming a doctor, but before that... they were rough days. He opens his eyes and it shows. Gone is the frumpy little man, calm and patient-faced.

Pebbled leather smooths along compact, firmly-muscled thighs. Black cotton clings, defining the ridges of a torso that the lumpy jumper didn’t even hint at earlier. Belts wind round his hips, matching Sigs holstered into place. The deep red leather of his jacket grabs attention and digs its claws in, demanding blood and sex and teeth.

He strides over to Locke, sets a finger under his chin; tips his mouth shut.

“So, where are we headed?”

: : :

John looks up, and up further, at the glossy white edifice at which they’ve arrived. It reminds him of the over-priced electronics store his sister had tried to drag him into when he’d first been discharged, all plate-glass and glowing walls.

The lobby’s full of people, but no one so much as glances up from their tablets as a wall of leather and weapons enters the building.

Of course, if this woman _can_ see the future, then she’s expecting them.

Nicodemus and Versai take up stations at the door, standing watch as the rest of them cross to the elevator. The soft hiss of the door coupled with the overwhelmingly white interior makes John feel like he’s on the _Enterprise_.

The elevator opens onto the forty-second floor, where pale carpet stretches towards floor-to-ceiling windows. A crisp square desk sits in what appears to be the precise mathematical center of the room; like the people downstairs, its occupant pays their entrance no notice.

Hermes coughs delicately, every inch the gentleman behind his knee-length trench coat. “A moment of your time, if we may?”

Cool, pale eyes survey them as she nods. “Him. I’ll speak with him.” A single finger beckons John towards the desk. He can feel sharp eyes on his back as he crosses to her.

“Don’t fret, John- they can’t hear you. Ask your questions.”

“Do you already know what I’m going to ask?”

“It’s better to say that I know what you’re most _likely_ to ask. Locke told you that I experience the Matrix differently than you humans do; I look out on this world and see- calculations. Events triggering other events, chain reactions of time and space. Probabilities to the nth power.”

“Why did you tell them that I’m the One?”

“What is it that you want to hear, John? That I dispensed some sort of oracular nonsense, waving my hands and telling your future?” She shakes her head with the sort of fond amusement usually saved for fussy, temperamental toddlers. “I have been waiting for the One for a long, long time. Watching children grow, all that data forecasting the way their little lives would unfold, the changes they would send out into the world. You know how this works; small rocks make little ripples, but big rocks- big rocks make waves. And you, John, are a very big rock. You always have been.”

John shakes his head, slowly. “No, you’re wrong. How many times do I have to say this? I am. Completely. Average.”

“No, John. You came from a broken home, suffered abuse as a child, and yet didn’t give in to your family’s propensity for addiction. Likelihood: 37 percent. In the top five of your graduation class. Likelihood: 22 percent. Turned down an offer from a prestigious London hospital and a glowing surgical career to join the military out of a sense of duty and patriotism. Likelihood: 5 percent. Saved more lives than any other doctor in your unit. Likelihood: 2 percent. Survived your first brush with the idea of the Matrix intact, with no significant loss of sanity or humanity. Likelihood: 0.5 percent. Successfully disengaged from the Matrix, again with negligible mental trauma. Likelihood: 0.002 percent.”

He’s reeling as the odds come spilling out of the Statistician’s mouth. They’re true, all of them, as far as John knows, but to hear the numbers like that staggers him. He’s simply done what he could with what he had in any given situation, that’s all.

“John, you are... a paradox. Where you pass, the most likely possibility simply _isn’t_.”

“But I don’t- I don’t _feel_ that. Hermes, Locke- they understand the Matrix like I never will, even after they crammed my brain full of information. It took me forever just to change clothes!”

“You’ve already felt it.”

“I don’t think-” and then it hits him. That moment, in the training sim with Locke, where everything coalesced. The way he felt the entire world inside himself, dissolving into it like a sugar cube in a cup of tea. How he could have reached out and wrapped reality around his finger, had he been so inclined.

His knees buckle, but the chair she’s just nudged into place keeps him from collapsing to the ground.

Remembering the moment with Locke trips another question. “Locke said that you told him. About us, him and... and me.”

“Ah, well, what I told Locke is his business. I will say this, though; it wasn’t some mystical hoodoo about soulmates and fated lovers. It’s math, John; numbers make the world go round. Person 1 has traits ABC, which makes them more or less compatible with Person 2 and traits XYZ. And the odds of you and Locke being compatible? The likelihood was very, very good. Better than I’ve ever seen, and still increasing.”

He’s gearing up to press for more information when a cell phone ring breaks the silence. “Ah, that’ll be your cue,” says the Statistician, as Hermes answers the phone.

“It’s Versai,” Hermes says, with a tiny downturn of the lips that would be a scowl on anyone less controlled. “They’ve found us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I've seen an agent punch through a concrete wall. Men have emptied entire clips at them and hit nothing but air" is a direct quote from the Matrix. I didn't write it, no need to sue.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a great deal of running, but no escape.

“Take the stairs,” the Statistician says, pointing at a door in the wall that wasn’t there a few seconds ago. “You’ll need to move quickly; they’ll only be clear for another 3.7 minutes.”

“Will you be alright?”

Her smile takes on a razor gleam. “Oh, the agents know better than to approach me.”

He grins back, all teeth and wicked edges. He’s itching to palm his Sigs and throw himself into the fray. Muscles loose, pulse thumping out a tempo that screams _fight_ , _fight_.

“One last word of advice, John. You can shape this reality around yourself; when you do, remember that the scalpel is as much a weapon as your gun.”

: : :

They pound down the stairs; John, covering the rear, nearly slams into Fox when they pull up short at the bottom.

The war zone he left behind has finally caught up with him.

Bullet holes strafe the walls, and knowing that it’s computer-generated doesn’t dull the scarlet splash of blood against white paneling. Nico and Versai must have retreated this way; John grits his teeth against the wash of adrenaline and fury, anticipating what he’ll see when Hermes leads them out into the alley.

Versai, facedown in a puddle of her own blood, hair spilling out onto the pavement.

Nico, propped against a wall, who looks like someone reached into his chest and yanked, a gritty, gaping hole where his sternum should be.

Years of training let him close his eyes and turn the vision into fuel for his fire; there’s nothing he can do for them now, and other people he needs to watch over. It blazes up in him- every patient that bled out on his table, every comrade lying dead in the dust- and he promises himself, no. No more. Not this time.

It must be the hundredth time he’s made the same vow, standing over a body he couldn’t keep safe.

Fox is shouting, relaying instructions from Anthea as she directs them to the nearest hardline, one they can tap to use as an exit. He hears it with half an ear, falling into the space that battle brings to the front of his brain. It’s a crisp, hyper-aware clarity that takes him nearly out of his body, each breath slow and steady, like he has all the time in the world.

John follows the whirl of coat and vinyl that is Hermes and Locke, whipping around corners, slamming through doors into people’s flats, diving out narrow back windows, leaving blank-faced amazement in their wake. They take the stairs down into the Tube at a rush, the station derelict and, thankfully, clear at this time of night. John doesn’t want to consider the kind of panic and chaos a shoot-out in the Underground would cause.

“Down, into the tunnel- there should be a service phone we can use in about 500 meters!” 

He throws himself down into the tunnel, the tinny sound of Anthea’s voice leading them on. Hermes spots it, finally, a grimy, grease-covered thing, tucked away in a niche off the main line.

“Fox, dial out,” Hermes snaps. “Tell Shale to get us prepped and ready to move immediately. We’ve been down too long, they’ll be narrowing down our location.”

Fox narrows his eyes, biting down on his obvious urge to get Hermes out first. John can sympathize- the agent he spoke with seemed fixated on Hermes, and John hasn’t forgotten the cabin Hermes and Fox share- but a captain gets his men to safety before himself. Always.

The phone drops, dangling on its cord as Fox vanishes. John’s reaching for the handset when he hears it- a scuff of gravel- one, two pops of air.

He puts a bullet in the forehead of the agent before consciously registering that he’s pulled his gun.

Hermes’ eyes flick from John to the dead agent, a smug, knowing expression at the back of his eyes. Staring down at the gun in his hand, he remembers Hermes telling him that no one- no one _normal_ , no one _ever_ \- moved fast enough to hit an agent.

The soft thump Locke makes as he collapses echoes through the tunnel.

John goes to his knees beside him. “Where are you hit? Locke. Locke! Come on, tell me, where are you hit?” He finds a trickle of blood at Locke’s neck, the thin skin there punctured by a tiny metal dart.

The shrill sound of Hermes’ mobile barely registers, until John watches Hermes fumble and go down trying to answer it. He snatches the phone from Hermes’ slack fingers.

“Anthea, what’s going on? They’ve been hit with something, a dart, an injection, I think; you have to pull them out, now!”

For the first time he hears a thread of uneasiness in her tone. “I can’t- something’s altered in their brain waves, they won’t disengage from the program-”

Fox comes on the line, voice tightly controlled. “Get out, John. We need you back here.”

“Are you bloody well kidding me? I’m not leaving them here alone.” He’ll go to his grave first.

“Christ, John, you think I want that either? With Versai gone, you’re the only doctor we have, and whatever this damn thing is, we need you _here_ to fucking _fix it_!”

There’s a crash and the line in his hand goes dead as the hardline starts to ring. He ignores it, pulling unconscious bodies into the niche next to the payphone. It’d be fairly ridiculous if they survived this only to get run over by the next train to come through.

Panic begins to unfurl, tingling in his fingertips as he reaches out and brushes Locke’s fringe off his forehead. He’s not a neurosurgeon, still doesn’t understand half of the programming that makes up the Matrix... doesn’t know if he can do this.

He gulps in a breath, pulls himself up, sets his shoulders.

Fuck. That.

He is Captain John Hamish Watson, and he has accomplished every bloody thing he’s set his mind to, ever.

He answers the phone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are many endings, but also a beginning.

Hours later, John stands at the control console, going over the brain wave scans again.

It’s a virus. A foul cohort of viruses, rather, working against the computer body that’s _inside_ the Matrix, while simultaneously attacking the electric signals being sent to and from the physical brain.

It is, in effect, tangling their brains back into the Matrix. A matter of hours, maybe less, and the Matrix- the _agents_ \- will have access to everything tucked away in their heads. Their informants. Lists of targets.

The entry keys to Zion.

That’s the start of it, but the virus goes still deeper- it’s chipping away at their source code, rewriting it from the bottom up. Changing the program, altering the very thing that makes them ‘Hermes’ and ‘Locke,’ instead of anyone else on the street.

Huddled over the table, he’d poured over it with Fox, Anthea, and Shale, but they’ve come to the same conclusion a half-dozen times. Even if there was a way to pull Locke and Hermes out, what they got back wouldn’t be their crewmates.

Friends.

Lovers? If they manage it, if they get Locke out... If it’s even what Locke wants, once all this is over. Gazing down at his blank, empty face in that tunnel, John had been struck by just how much he wanted to _know_ Locke, all the questions he had about his life, what made him tick- the man he might be, hidden away under all that leather and snark.

: : :

The world has hazy edges, and John knows he must be dreaming. Falling-floating-tumbling down the rabbit hole and bumping bits and pieces of his life on the way down.

A nudge at the wrist- _performing his first large-scale surgery, reaching into the chest cavity of a living, breathing human being, literally holding life in his hands_ -

A knock on the shoulder- _heat, the weight of his pack, gun in his hands, watching the enemy body drop_ -

A brush against the small of the back- _sharp eyes and a twitch of lips set against translucent skin_ -

A pointed jab to the chest- “ _You can shape this reality around yourself; when you do, remember that the scalpel is as much a weapon as your gun_.”

: : :

He stumbles into the common room after barely an hour’s rest, plagued by indecipherable dreams. Slumped at the table, Fox looks as bad as John can tell his own face does.

“Where’re the others?”

“Shale’s finally managed to get in touch with the Council, see if they have any ideas. Anthea’s still in bed.”

They stare at each other blearily, bowls of porridge going cold between them. John’s grateful for the thud of Shale’s boots in the hallway.

“The council says...” Shale pauses, swallowing, “they said we have to pull the plug.”

“We are not fucking doing that. It’ll _kill them_.”

“Fox, man, I know. I know, but it’s what Hermes would want. He’d kill himself before he put Zion in danger like that.”

“Don’t try to tell me what Hermes would want! We’re _not doing it_.” John grabs Fox’s wrist before it can make contact with Shale’s face.

“Sit. Down. Fox. Of course we’re not doing it.”

Shale stares at the both of them. “Yes, we are. I’m sorry, Fox, John, but we are. With Hermes gone, I’m the captain, and I have to keep Zion safe. If they get into Hermes’ head, that’s the end of it. We’re done.”

Anthea’s unruffled voice breaks the tense standoff that’s taken hold. “ _I’m_ sorry, Shale. I do so hate to state the obvious, but there are three of us, and only one- well.” She waves a hand in his direction. “We’ll find a way to get them out, with or without you.” Her inflection leaves no doubt as to what ‘without you’ entails. 

Shale sets his jaw, staring at Anthea. John knows what it’s like, and if he were captain he’d be making the same decision, but he’s not the captain this time around. He is going to save Locke and Hermes, and god help whoever gets in his way.

Shale makes contact with three sets of steely eyes in turn.

“The Council’s contacting us again in an hour, and they expect this matter resolved. I’ll be on the flight deck for exactly sixty minutes, and then I’m pulling the plug and taking us home. What happens between now and then, well...” He turns on his heel and strides from the room.

In the silence Shale leaves behind, John hears the Statistician’s voice again, goading him. “I think... I think I might have an idea.”

: : :

There’s no time to practice, to get a grip on it, to decide that it might be anything other than what it is- a crazy, last-ditch effort, based on little but hope and blind faith.

He looks at Fox. “Ready?”

“Let’s do this.”

Anthea gives them the count-

: : :

Black. Stark, unrelenting, battle-ready black from top to toe. They’re taking no prisoners, giving no quarter.

Anthea dropped them in the most closely-monitored area she could find- an agent opens a door and steps out into their path almost immediately. One he recognizes.

The agent from the cab.

“I did tell you we’d meet again, Doctor Watson.”

John says nothing, Fox a solid weight at his shoulder; watching as the agent strides closer. 

“Did you think that you’d be of any use, Doctor? Poor, broken John Watson, with his little limp and his little gun. I see it, you know, what we’ve taken from Locke already. How he thought you were the _One_ , how’d you save all the other little bugs, scurrying around.”

Closer.

“How he _felt_ about you, all those disgusting, messy, _human_ emotions that you couldn’t even bring yourself to admit.”

Closer.

“You’re nothing but a loose end now, Doctor Watson, and I intend to-”

Close enough. John grabs for the agent’s tie, jerking them together.

Slams his eyes shut. Coaxes his brain into the mental _twist_ he’d learned from Locke; one step, another.

Shoves his hand into the agent’s chest.

Information floods into him, a sudden, inescapable overload where he’s conscious of every nanosecond. He watches Fox lower them to the ground as John and the agent twitch and jerk.

 _Breathe into it, John. Breathe_.

With each breath he expands, gathering the data into himself. He’s opening to it, dissolving, snapping into that perfect, crystalline vision, and he finally, _finally_ understands.

Sees it laid out like a first-year med school chart. Not a heartless, sterile machine, but an organism, a body, nerves sparking, blood pumping, interconnected. _This_ agent, _these_ people, antibodies and cells, organs and flesh wrapped in a skin that is the Matrix.

He follows the umbilical that leads from the agent to the heart, the Core, of the system. Part of him wants to tear and rend, to destroy the machines for what they’ve done- he shoves it down. Moves calmly, delicately, with surgical precision.

Finds one shard, then another, the shrapnel of what used to be Locke. Knows him, in that moment, down to the bone, to the cells. Would recognize any part of him, anywhere. Is absolutely suffused with love for this sharp-eyed disaster of a man. Pieces him together, stitching up the gaps and setting broken code to rights. Whispers life back into him.

When it’s done, he reaches out, pulls in Fox, gathers up Locke.

_Help me. Help me find Hermes._

They work together- Locke’s memories of a boy named Mycroft, his beloved older brother who vanished, inexplicably; the way Fox’s eyes were caught by a brilliant, outspoken man during an endless Council meeting; a silent figure who sat next to John in a shattered dream and gave him time. Things that John wouldn’t have guessed, and some that don’t surprise him.

He slips them back into their bodies, feeling the _rightness_ of it.

Hangs there, floating, for an eternity, simply watching it all work.

: : :

“Come back to me, John. Wake up.”

His eyes flutter, Locke’s face coming into focus above his own, just as it had when they pulled him out of the Matrix the first time. God, only a handful of days have passed since then.

“John?”

He reaches up, snags an arm around Locke’s neck, and tugs him down into a kiss. What he’s done today is just a stopgap- the machines, the agents, the _war_ is still out there. For now, though, he intends to fall into the feel of Locke’s mouth and forget about the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you to every one who's been reading along. There's a lot left to explore (and more clothes for our boys to wear!); you can expect the sequel to start soon.

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to my betas [CKDrake](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CKDrake/pseuds/CKDrake), [1electricpirate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/1electricpirate/pseuds/1electricpirate/) and [a_xmasmurder](http://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder), the inexpressibly lovely folks at antidiogenes, and my hand-holding, flail-calming, middle-of-the-night cheerleader [casualpahoehoe](http://casualpahoehoe.tumblr.com/), without whom this story would not exist.
> 
> Title & summary from Plato's _Allegory of the Cave_.
> 
> Fantastic cover art by infinisea [here](http://thatworldinverted.tumblr.com/post/51114771646/how-amazing-are-these-this-is-the-fantastic-art).


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